


Proud Mary

by Blackbeltkitten2



Category: Night at the Museum (Movies), Technically Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, But mostly for the music, Cajun!Napoleon Bonaparte, Chef!Al Capone, Fic Inspired by MANY songs, Foul Language, M/M, Multi, Not quite a slowburn, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:41:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26624593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackbeltkitten2/pseuds/Blackbeltkitten2
Summary: Twenty years old and he was already getting pestered, and he was tired of it.  The questions from his family-friends, the intrusive nosiness, the occasional looks, "Where ya goin' in life, Al?" "Who's the dame?" "Gonna get an ol' ball n' chain anytime soon, ey?" he was finished.  That's when he packed his bags, kissed his mama and his sister on the cheek, shook his pa's and his bothers' hands, told them "I gotta see things, go places, get out of the borough and find out what new towns can be like for me," promised to write any chance he got, and copped a seat on a bus.(I will give extra content warnings at the beginnings of chapters if I find them needed.)(Fic title is from the song "Proud Mary" by Creedence Clearwater Revival.)
Relationships: Napoleon Bonaparte/Al Capone (Night at the Museum), Napoleon Bonaparte/Original Male Character(s) (Past)
Kudos: 3





	1. On The Road Again

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by quite a few songs, from a good ways back all the way up until 1982 to 83-ish. This chapter was inspired by the song ["On The Road Again" by Canned Heat.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRKNw477onU) While it's not necessary, I do recommend giving it a listen to get the vibe.
> 
> I've not abandoned Bad, Bad Alphonse Capone, but I've unfortunately lost my motivation towards it for a while, I do hope to recapture it later though!
> 
> If you notice any glaring mistakes, please let me know so I can fix them!

Twenty years old and he was already getting pestered, and he was tired of it. The questions from his family-friends, the intrusive nosiness, the occasional looks, "Where ya goin' in life, Al?" "Who's the dame?" "Gonna get an ol' ball n' chain anytime soon, ey?" he was finished.

That's when he packed his bags, kissed his mama and his sister on the cheek, shook his pa's and his bothers' hands, told them "I gotta see things, go places, get out of the borough and find out what new towns can be like for me," promised to write any chance he got, and copped a seat on a bus bound for Chicago. It was the best thing he'd ever done. Until the weather turned.

Freezing rain, blinding snow, and heatwaves, it felt like Hell. The best days were wonderful, getting odd jobs, meeting new people, finding new and interesting bars, but the worst? He couldn't count on both hands every sickness he got in winter and every time he nearly fell out in the summer. Four years was all he tried to muscle through before he gathered up his meager stuff and jumped on another bus to St. Louis, Missouri.

St. Louis could've been worse, but it wasn't for him, too easy to make friends with the wrong people, not that he didn't know damn well who he was talking to, but it seemed like they were more volatile than even himself. A year of that and he loaded up, heading for Nashville, Tennessee.

Nashville pulsed, the bars and saloons, music and dance halls, good food and good company. It was wonderful, he got his first job tending bar since the incident back home in Brooklyn. He wanted to sock everyone who commented on it. He wished he could've stayed longer, but after three years the rent was breaking his back faster than any keg could, so he gathered up and hopped another bus to Memphis, Tennessee.

The sweet, sweet blues and jazz was great, but then things got dark, he could barely afford rent, he couldn't find himself a job worth keeping, two years of wondering if he'd even have food for the month. He split as soon as he got himself enough money saved for a ticket.

Jackson, Mississippi was kinder on his wallet, and he found he enjoyed cooking quite a bit, but he just didn't like the place as much for some reason, whatever it was he wanted to go. It only took him nine months to get going, on down to Lafayette, Louisiana.

He loved Louisiana, couldn't get enough of it. He jumped several jobs, but Lafayette didn't hold everything he wanted, so four months later after a visit to Baton Rouge, he moved there.

He found himself a pretty good job at a little café, but after a violent robbery he didn't witness- or even get the chance to stop -eleven months later by some guys he thought were friends, he had to get the Hell out of there. New Orleans had always seemed like it'd be too much, like it'd be hard to get a job and hard to pay rent, but he always heard it was a pretty decent place to be, so he decided to give it a shot.

Now here he was, thirty-two, determined, and writing home to his mama about his new apartment on a quaint little street, and his second job ever in New Orleans. A chef, a _chef _, for a riverboat, hotel, and casino company. He couldn't buzz with any more excitement and nerves if he tried. Mama was gonna be so proud of him.__


	2. River Boat Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter inspiration and title taken from ["Proud Mary" by Creedence Clearwater Revival](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XfyEpmQM7bw), again, it isn't required that you listen to the song, but I highly recommend listening to it for the vibes.
> 
> (If there is anyone out there that actually knows some small bits about voodoo and such magic in Louisiana, or if anyone knows some historical and/or informational websites they can point me to, that would be extremely appreciated, because there's only so much bullshitting I can do and googling doesn't seem to turn up anything useful for me.)

Walking face-first into a cloud of cheap cigar smoke, cheap perfume, and the fumes off of what seemed like two hundred glasses of- what a shocker -cheap, watered down alcohol wasn't the kick-off to his first day on the job he'd wanted.

Actually, burning his breakfast beyond recognition on the stove that was probably older than he was in his haste to get ready wasn't the kick-off he'd wanted, but he was trying to purge that memory from his mind before he screwed up his first official day at work.

Then his stomach growled rather loudly as he hurried across the dining hall to meet up with his new boss. Peachy. Just damn peachy.

Al took off his hat as he approached, put on his grin, and stuck out his hand to-

He'd expected his boss to be clean-shaven, spiffy, and maybe a little more... Fruity, for lack of a better word, for the proud owner of a small company that has riverboats, hotels, and casinos, or any combination of the three, in New Orleans no less. He certainly didn't expect the guy to look like he could break your arm off, have the dark, sharp eyes of a master auction bidder, or the bushy beard to compete with a moonshiner drawing.

"Alphonse Gabriele Capone. Most people call me Al, or Capone."

The man nods and takes his hand, shaking it firmly. He's got a good three piece suit on, charcoal grey with dark pinstripes, a large ring, a ruby red diamond-patterned tie. It has to be tailor-fit, because the chances of a suit fitting someone that well off the rack are slim.

"Ivan Grozny. It is good to meet you, Capone. I have been looking for a new chef, after our most recent one decided to show up to work so drunk he couldn't stand upright."

He wasn't expecting the thick Russian accent either.

"Well, I won't be doin' that, sir. I might've met a bottle or two, but I certainly won't be showin' up schnockered."

Ivan actually chuckles at that, thank God he's not stiff as a board.

"That is good news. Now, Capone, let me show you to our little 'galley' of sorts, and you show me how good of a chef you are."

Ivan stands up and ushers him through a set of doors, where Ivan shows him to his locker for his coat, hat and any other personal effects, and hands him a plain button-up jacket and a cap.

"Ah, the Boyardee look."

That earns him another chuckle, and he's finally ushered into the kitchen.

And God, does it look like some kind of gourmet kitchen compared to the highly questionable food prep areas he's been in before. He could've danced when he noticed his shoes weren't immediately glued to the floor, but now is not the time for acting funny, now is the time to show his new boss what he's made of.

Evidently sacrificing his breakfast to the reigning Food Gods was what he'd needed, because his platter of shrimp and grits with a side of fried okra for Ivan's scrutiny goes completely according to plan, and apparently the addition of a sprinkle of turmeric for color is an "Interesting touch."

His parting handshake with Ivan includes a single shoulder pat, and a nod as Ivan gives final confirmation before leaving him to his first day.

And it was the best kitchen experience he's had. No screaming, no reusing six-week-old French fry lard, everything was organized instead of heaved into a cabinet that's never cleaned, the grill didn't reek of burning gas as he walked by, nothing crawled across his shoes while he was in the middle of tossing salads.

He was still buzzing with nerves as his shift ended at lunch, and he practically bounced home as he read over his official shift schedule.

At least, until his stomach growled like a bear and the knot of hunger finally crawled up his throat. Goddamn it.

He hustled another block and a half towards home when the smell of food hit his nose. If he was poetic he'd say something about siren song, but he'd need food in his belly, a thesaurus, and a highschool diploma before he tried anything like that.

So he follows his nose, and bless all things good that the place wafting that wonderful smell is two blocks down and across the street from his apartment.

It's a funny little building, you could mistake it for a bookstore, a magic shop, or a souvenir shop, and that's likely the reason he passed it up while exploring the immediate area when he moved in. But enough of fake shrunken heads and odd necklaces.

The bell over the heavy oak door jingles on his way in, and he ignores all the trinkets, books, candles, and other oddities to come up to the counter to the right of the door, which was also full of weird stuff, to ring the little bell and read off the small menu on the counter.

Now, the man that came out of the door in the back would've surprised him a little if it wasn't for the two defining factors; The weird shop, and being in New Orleans.

The man wasn't tall, definitely shorter than himself by at least the width of his hand, and the large hat he was wearing didn't make him look any taller. He was wearing a rather billowy white poet shirt, a wide black ribbon tied into a bow around the collar, and a cream-colored vest with a gold watch chain. He was wearing rather snug- damn near revealing - tan pants, that flared out from the knee down to a bell-bottom, and from the barest glimpse, black shoes.

The man stepped up behind the counter and rested both of his hands on it, leaning towards him slightly.

"You're new to town, yeah?"

The man was a bit tan, with keen, blue-grey eyes. His very dark brown hair was about shoulder length and set in some sort of style. He had a somewhat thick Cajun accent. So Al lays on his winning smile and sticks out his hand.

"Yessir, I am. I'm Alphonse Capone, but most everyone calls me Al, or Capone."

The man gives a slight half-smile and takes his hand, shaking rather firmly.

"Just charmed. I'm Napoleon Bonaparte. Most everyone calls me mister Bonaparte when they don't know me."

Ah, right. He'd been warned by a couple people out of Jackson, Mississippi, when he mentioned he was moving to Louisiana. That he was gonna get scrutinized by the locals for a while to see if he's adapting.

"Well mister Bonaparte-"

His stomach growls again. Apparently that's enough to get Napoleon to crack a bit of a grin.

"You've come in for food then, yeah?" Napoleon gestures at the menu and grabs a rag from somewhere behind the counter, and pulls a carved metal cup out from behind the glass part of the counter to give it a polish.

"Well sir, I think I'll have a po' boy, and boudin balls."

Napoleon sets the cup and rag down and gives him a small smile.

"Comin' right up, Capone."

Napoleon walks off to the door and heads into the back, right as Al's stomach growls again.

Well, looks like he's gonna be coming back often, if the food is as good as it smells.


	3. Bourbon Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The song blasting on Al's clock radio is probably ["Cajun Joe" by the Ragin' Cajun himself, Doug Kershaw,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3vrWbzqZTLw) because it's fantastic and I love it, it isn't required but I highly recommend it.
> 
> IMPORTANT! I have gone back and edited a couple of small bits, (not to mention I ended up with something that took importance over writing unfortunately, so I ended up leaving this for a lot longer than planned, whoops), so I do recommend a re-read.

The po' boy and boudin balls could've made any cook weep out of shame. Al was definitely going back for lunch tomorrow.

He decided he'd walk around and see what he'd overlooked or wrote off as uninteresting while he ate, and before he knew it he'd explored just about every building that was open to the public, found another restaurant for dinner and a drink, and the moon was well on the rise as he headed back to his apartment.

The wind was brisk as he hurried up the steps and let himself into the first floor hall to get out of the chill, and he took the stairs up to the second floor slowly, humming quietly.

Right about as he got to his door, he heard it. Like he had to hear nearly every night for the past few weeks while he searched for a job. His neighbor, on the top floor, stomping around. He could damn near track the movements even outside of his own apartment.

"Not again, why can't ya be out bar hoppin' or something?!"

He lets himself in, hangs his coat and hat up, and kicks his shoes off across the room where they hit the couch.

Stomp, stomp, stomp, over to the fridge. Stomp, stomp, stomp, over to the couch.

He seethes and shuffles off to his bedroom, yanking his vest, tie, and belt off and flopping them over his little chair.

Stomp, stomp, stomp, back to the kitchen. Stomp, stomp, the TV cuts off.

"What an ending ta my night."

He flops down across his bed as he yanks his pants off and gives them a heave towards the chair, sighing.

Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp, and the pipes in his walls rattle horribly as his upstairs neighbor turns on the shower.

Guess it's gonna be a long night. Thank all that's holy he's got the dinner shift for the foreseeable future, maybe by the time he's home his neighbor will be in bed.

-

Al wakes up, flat on his stomach, to his alarm clock blasting some kinda stereotypical Cajun music off the radio. He groans loudly and reaches over, pressing aimlessly until the thing shuts off before he even raises his head to look at the time.

11:00AM.

Then the door upstairs slams and the neighbor upstairs' heavy footsteps go down the hall until they disappear.

Great.

-

Al hunts down his shoes while the coffee pot comes up to heat. At least he can't burn coffee in the time it takes to throw on some clothes.

He finds his shoes half crammed under the edge of the couch, and the belt he lost about a week ago.

He finally manages to get some semblance of decent clothing on and out the door with his coffee, and he takes a satisfying sip-

And just barely manages to keep from spitting boiling hot, scalded coffee everywhere. He decides to spend a solid minute standing in the hallway glaring at the shitty carpet before he leaves, just to keep from throwing the cup.

He heads down the stairs and out the door as quickly as he can, making a beeline for Napoleon's nameless shop.

And boy does it smell sweet outside the building. The mingling of smells and odd sights... Lunch, before he strains his brain.

The bell jingles on his way in, and he decides to take a brief moment to actually look at what's around him; shelves chock full with books and candles, figurines and cups and plates and bowls, utensils and decor and such, a rack full of necklaces and bracelets and earrings near the door, some of which he can literally only describe as "protective."

He could spend hours in here looking if he _really _wanted to, he's sure.__

__The whole place is silent other than his footsteps as he meanders up to the counter. The display section of it is equally full of weird stuff; creepy porcelain dolls, commemorative pins and campaign buttons from since before he was even old enough to vote, old matchbooks and some matchbox cars, pewter cups and weird mugs, Hell there's even a Howdy Doody handkerchief. Even..._ _

__Even a basket of coon penis bones. Fifty cents apiece._ _

__"I take it you are the out-of-towner mister Napoleon mentioned to me this morning?"_ _

__Al jolts and spins around, bracing on the countertop, to find a very young man standing in front of him with short, wavy brown hair and a rather sizeable, bejeweled collar on his shiny shirt, with matching pants. First a Russian, then finding out this place had great food and a terse owner, and now a flashy kid with a smooth English accent smirking at him._ _

__"That'd be me. I'm Al Capone. You can call me Al if you want."_ _

__The young man nods and steps closer, offering his hand._ _

__"Ahkmenrah. Before you ask, I was born in Egypt, my parents sent me to school in England for a while, and then they let me come here to America to a trusted guardian when I told them I didn't want to return home yet."_ _

__Al nods and shakes his hand._ _

__"Wasn't gonna ask, but what a story, and a kingly name. Makes a good pick-up line."_ _

__Ahkmenrah smiles, "If I was old enough or had any interest to go into a bar, perhaps."_ _

__Al waves his other hand aimlessly and lets go of Ahkmenrah's._ _

__"Well that's fine too, kid. What do you do around here?"_ _

__"If you mean in the shop, I make most of the jewelry, help keep the place clean and for the most part tidy, read whatever book is on hand, and learn about Cajun cooking from Mister Napoleon."_ _

__Al nods, "Looks like a noble task, learning from him. Going by how stingy he is with that good ole hospitality."_ _

__Ahkmenrah shakes his head slightly, "Where are you from, Al?"_ _

__"Brooklyn, New York. Navy Yard section. Why?"_ _

__"I'll let you in on an open secret that applies to any place, your borough included. The second and third time is always the charm. Once a store owner has your business more than once, they open up more to you, because people come through all the time once, but _customers _keep coming back."___ _

____Al smiles slightly, "Well, you're not wrong. Just not quite used to the Louisiana brand of shop owners yet."_ _ _ _

____Ahkmenrah smiles slightly, and looks like he's about to speak again when the door to the back room opens suddenly and Napoleon comes out, wiping his hands on a towel, smirking slightly._ _ _ _

____"I take it the boudin balls and the po' boy were good, Capone?"_ _ _ _

____Al nods and turns around to the counter as Napoleon walks behind it._ _ _ _

____"Couldn't be better, in fact I think I'll have the same again, if you're making it."_ _ _ _

____Napoleon looks real satisfied with himself. "If you're payin', I'm making. With all of the trimmings again?"_ _ _ _

____Al nods, and Napoleon heads into the kitchen immediately._ _ _ _

____Ahkmenrah giggles behind him, "I hope you like spice, he put extra cayenne and hot peppers in the sauce this morning."_ _ _ _

____-_ _ _ _

____Ahkmenrah wasn't wrong about the peppers, his mouth was on fire his entire meander towards the river, and that's saying something for him._ _ _ _

____Sucking air and trying to sniff away the nose burn occupies him until he gets to a ferry, and Al decides to take it on across into New Orleans proper, he's always wanted to see Bourbon Street, and with time to kill before work, he might as well take a gander._ _ _ _

____And what a place it is, well worth the walk. The restaurants are already hopping for it being only 1PM. Street performers on various corners are playing, and one or two bands are setting up inside bars. He can't imagine what it'd be like at night, but he won't be finding that out right now._ _ _ _

____Al decides to mosey into a bar and see if he can get a drink, sliding up to the bar and leaning against it slightly. One of the bartenders comes over, a voluptuous blonde lady with a tight bun and an equally tight shirt, an obvious bid for extra tips._ _ _ _

____"How can I help ya there, sir?"_ _ _ _

____"Depends, is the drinkin' in the street thing true?"_ _ _ _

____She smirks slightly._ _ _ _

____"Yessir it is, but only in a plastic cup. Don't need any cut up feet around here."_ _ _ _

____"Well, I'll take..." He takes a vague look at the taps and gestures to some local brand, "That, in a cup to go, if ya don't mind."_ _ _ _

____She smiles and nods, heading over and filling his cup up right nicely._ _ _ _

____"That'll be a dollar fifty. You headin' out on me so soon there, big fella?"_ _ _ _

____"Oh I don't know..." Al hands her three bucks, half for her and half for the beer, and leans forwards slightly to read off her nametag, "Deborah. I got work in a little while. I suppose I could stay about an hour."_ _ _ _

____Deborah smiles at him and takes another customer's order before coming back, leaning her elbows on the bar._ _ _ _

____"Good to hear. Tell me about yourself, stranger."_ _ _ _

____Well, my name's Alphonse Capone, but most people call me Al..."_ _ _ _


End file.
